CHAPTER FOURTEEN

FREEZER BAGS

Claire had her emotions under control by the time she picked up the kids, but camouflaging her mood was a bit more difficult. George Jr. was the first to notice something was awry. He sat up front with his short legs dangling over the seat. He had his backpack on his lap and his most recent spelling test in hand.

“No one else got a hundred,” he chirped. “Teacher says I’m going to set the curve when I get to middle school. What’s a curve, Mama?”

“It’s what nerds do to make everyone hate them,” Stacy explained. She sat in the back wearing a white T-shirt with the word PRECIOUS pasted across the chest. Nikki slouched next to her wearing baggy jeans.

“They don’t hate me!” George Jr. exclaimed.

“They will when you get to middle school,” Stacy predicted.

“Mama, will they hate me when I get to middle school?”

“No, honey,” Claire said without looking over.

“See. I told you!”

“Mama hasn’t been in school in twenty years,” Stacy guessed. “She don’t know what goes on.”

“Ooh!” George Jr. patted his mother’s leg. “Mama!”

“What, dear?”

“She said, ‘don’t know.’ ”

“That’s nice, honey.”

“Shut up and mind your business,” Stacy warned.

“Mama!” He smacked her more persistently. “She was supposed to say ‘doesn’t know.’ ”

“Hmm?”

“Stacy said she don’t know, and she was supposed to say she doesn’t know.”

“Okay, baby,” Claire said.

“But Mama—”

“She said it’s fine, so leave her alone!”

“Mama, did you see my test?” George Jr. whined.

“Yes, sweetie.”

“You didn’t even look at it.”

“Hmmm?”

Little George studied her countenance for a few seconds, and then he turned and eyeballed his sisters. “Something’s wrong with Mama,” he announced.

Stacy sat up in her seat. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong with me,” Claire said, her eyes still on the road.

“Did you have a bad day at work?” Nikki asked.

That seemed like a good excuse. “Yeah. I guess I did.”

“Are you tired, Mama?” Stacy asked. “You look tired.”

“Do you want me to help make dinner tonight?” Nikki offered.

“Sure,” Claire said. “I’d appreciate that.”

“I can make macaroni,” Nikki said.

George Jr.’s face lit up. “Me, too!”

“Thanks,” Claire told him. She stopped at a light and turned to face him fully. “You’re a very special young man.”

He grinned like a Jack-O-Lantern.

Claire looked in the rearview and made eye contact with her girls. “I appreciate you guys, too. You’re all perfect, precious children. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Stacy was glad for the endorsement, but Nikki was a little confused.

“Dang, Mama. All I did was offer to make macaroni.”

* * *

Claire got dinner started, and she took a shower while the girls boiled noodles. When she got out of the tub, George Sr. was home. He came into the bathroom and ogled her wolfishly while she dried off.

“You should have waited on me,” he said. “I would have got in there with you.”

“Like I know when you’re going to be home.”

“I’m just kidding, baby.” He sat on the toilet and ran a hand up her inner thigh. Claire stepped away from him and snatched her robe from behind the door. She turned her back and slid into it quickly. When she faced him again, George gave her a peculiar look.

“What’s up, baby? You doing all right?”

She rolled her eyes and went over to the sink. “I’m just fine, dear.”

She checked her features in the vanity and started to brush her hair. George got up and stood behind her. He tried to grab on to her, but Claire increased her brush strokes to an almost dangerous speed. She aimed to knock him on the forehead, but George bobbed out of the way like a prizefighter.

“Damn, baby! You almost hit me.”

“You see me trying to do my hair.”

“You coulda gave me a black eye.”

“Give me three feet and you’ll be fine,” Claire advised him coolly.

George grinned. He moved in for another hug, but Claire timed her downstroke just right this time. She jerked back, hard, and the brush exploded from her head as if from a cannon. George backed away and brought a hand up simultaneously. The wooden brush banged hard on his pinky finger, and he yelped loudly like a frightened puppy.

“Ouch! Dammit, Claire!” He shook his hand briskly and rubbed on the sore digit. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I told you to give me some room,” she said without looking back.

“Yeah, but you didn’t have to hit me!”

“I didn’t hit you. You stuck your hand up there on your own.”

“I stuck my hand up to protect my head!”

“Well, your head shouldn’t have been there, then.”

George scowled at her reflection. “You crazy. I didn’t do nothing to you.”

That was almost laughable. Claire wanted to show him the pictures so badly her fingers trembled.

“You got problems,” he said and disappeared through the bedroom.

“And you’re a disgusting asshole,” Claire muttered when he was gone. She couldn’t wait to say that to his face.

* * *

Dinner was great, but the tension at the table was so thick it could have been a side dish. Claire sat across from her husband, and they frowned at each other for most of the meal. The kids didn’t know what was wrong, but they knew when to keep quiet. An awkward silence ensued; only the clinking of forks scraping plates disturbed the hush. When the phone rang, George Jr. jumped as if struck. Claire went to the kitchen to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Claire, your phone’s still dead,” Melanie said.

“Oh. I’m sorry. It’s on the charger, but it’s not on. I wasn’t thinking about it.”

“How are you not thinking about it? I told you we were going over that bitch’s house today.”

“Yeah, Melanie, I don’t think I can make it.”

“Why not?”

“It’s just not a good time. I’m not feeling well.”

“That’s good,” Melanie said. “You can use that hate.”

“Melanie—”

“Do you want to know what George’s kids are doing right now?”

“What?”

“I mean, I’m looking at both of them little bastards right now. Don’t tell me you’re not curious.”

“You went over there?”

“Claire, I already told you I was going.”

“I know, but, by yourself?”

“Listen, girl, I got your back—even when you don’t want me to have it. We in this together, right?”

Claire put a hand to her mouth. “Yeah. Thank you, Melanie.”

“They’ve been in the yard for an hour. I got some pictures of them, they mama, too. I’m about to leave if you’re not coming.”

“Can you give me directions?”

“That’s my girl,” Melanie said. “You get your ass over here.”

* * *

As surprised as George was that his wife would strike him with a hairbrush, that was nothing compared to his shock when Claire told him she was leaving—in the middle of dinner.

She went upstairs without a word and grabbed her cellphone. She passed through the dining room on the way out of the front door. “I’ll be back.”

“You’ll what? Where are you going?” George left his seat and caught up with her in the living room. The kids looked on with clear foreboding.

“I said I’ll be back.”

“Back from where, Claire? Where are you going? We’re eating dinner. You can’t just leave.”

She tilted her head. “Why not?”

George softened. He put his hands on her shoulders. “Listen, baby. I don’t know what’s going on, but we need to talk about it. If there’s something you want, if there’s something you need, just tell me. If I did something—what is it?”

Claire stared into his brown eyes and smiled. She put a hand on the side of his face and pulled him close for a kiss. His lips were as warm and full as they always were, but they were just dead meat as far as Claire was concerned.

“You’re fine, baby,” she said. “You didn’t do anything at all.”

“So where are you going?”

“I’m going to Melanie’s house. Trevon needs help with his algebra.”

“In the middle of dinner?”

“Are you going to miss me?”

He smiled.

“Stop acting like a baby,” she said. “I’ll be back in time to put the kids in bed.”

“And then you can put me to bed?” He grinned perversely, and Claire saw the young Girl Scout superimposed over his features.

“Yeah, baby,” she said. “Anything you want.”

He slapped her on the butt on her way out, and Claire gritted her teeth and endured it. She never thought it possible, but even his touch sickened her.

And that was a rotten feeling; an awful, stinking feeling.

* * *

The ride on the freeway felt like it was taking longer than yesterday. Claire found herself bouncing a knee and biting her nails. She called Melanie when she got on I-35.

“My nigga! You made it out?”

“Yeah. You still there?”

“I was getting ready to leave. I didn’t know if you were going to call back or not. It’s getting dark.”

“Did they go inside yet?”

“Yeah.”

“Damn.”

“I took some pictures,” Melanie said again, “of them and they mama.”

“I really appreciate that.”

“I told you, I got your back.”

“You and Becky seem to have my back more than I do. I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Just as long as you break George’s ass down to the barest essentials I’ll be happy. Mostly I’m doing it ’cause I love you, but I also can’t stand to see a man do a woman like that, especially a good woman like you. I want to go to court and see him crying like a baby. I want your lawyer to hold up one of those pictures, and I’m going to be like, ‘Yeah! I took that one, nigga!’ ”

Claire laughed. “So you’re going home?”

“Not if you’re coming. They’re about to eat dinner. I can see her setting the table.”

“You can see inside their house?”

“She’s got her blinds open,” Melanie said. “By the time you get here, it’ll be dark enough for us to go in their front yard, but I’ve got binoculars, too.”

Claire chuckled. “Oh, my God, Melanie. You’re a fool.”

“You need to hurry up.”

“I’m coming,” Claire said. “I’m doing eighty.”

“Do ninety.”

* * *

Claire called her friend back when she exited on Story Road, and Melanie directed her the rest of the way. The mistress’s neighborhood was as nice as Melanie described. Most of the houses were brick with circular driveways and St. Augustine lawns. The sun had almost set, but there was still a beautiful auburn tint in the horizon.

A few neighbors were out walking their dogs. Claire had to slow for a gang of skateboarders when she turned onto Stevens Court. She pulled to a stop behind her friend’s Impala and crept from her Lexus like a Navy SEAL. She climbed in on the passenger side and looked around anxiously. Melanie frowned at her.

“Girl, what you doing?”

“This is crazy,” Claire said. “I’ve got goose bumps.”

“And you’re sitting on my Snickers,” Melanie informed her.

Claire raised up and pulled the squashed candy bar from under her. “Eww! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I just did.”

Claire looked around for somewhere to put it, but everywhere looked like a trash. There were potato chip bags on the floorboard, empty soda cans on the backseat, and a huge turkey leg on the center console. It was skinned all the way to the bone.

“You got a little hungry?” Claire teased.

Melanie smiled pleasantly. “Girl, you know you can’t do no stakeout without food.”

Claire chuckled softly. She loved this woman; every pudgy pound of her.

“Just throw that anywhere,” Melanie said.

Claire looked around uneasily before depositing it on the dashboard. She scanned the nearby houses anxiously. “Which one is it?”

Melanie affixed an evil eye on the house right across from them and nodded in that direction. “There that bitch go.”

Claire leaned forward and peeked around her friend’s heaving bosoms. “Oh, my God! You’ve been sitting right here?”

“Naw. I moved down here once the kids went inside.”

“But still…”

“You know what I learned?” Melanie asked. “People don’t live their lives looking over their shoulder and stuff. No one looks at every car on their street when they go outside. It ain’t like the movies; mostly people just go on about their business.”

Claire still didn’t feel comfortable, but it was almost dark, and the house they were posted in front of had a FOR SALE sign in the yard. At least no complaints would come from that direction.

“Here,” Melanie said. She handed over a pair of binoculars, and Claire scrutinized them curiously. Nikki had a pair when they lived in Alaska, but that was a long, long time ago.

“Just point and look,” Melanie directed her. “Roll that knob on top to focus.”

Claire followed those basic instructions, and soon everything was crystal clear. George’s mistress had a huge picture window at the front of the house, and the blinds were indeed pulled back. Claire saw a dining table set with both a main course and side dishes. There was a vase in the center filled with fresh flowers. There was a familiar woman sitting at the head of the table with her two children on either side of her.

Claire was mostly interested in the second child, but she zoomed in on the interloper instead. This woman was of the devil. She was the destroyer of all things good, but Claire still couldn’t find anything physically wrong with her, and that was very frustrating.

George’s other woman was dressed casually now in jeans and a T-shirt, and her hair was pulled back rather than flowing voluminously like a model’s. But even without all the flair, she was very beautiful. She had smooth skin, an easy smile, and nice teeth. She was about Claire’s height and at least thirty pounds leaner. Her breasts were perkier than Claire’s. She didn’t look any older than twenty-eight.

“You know them his kids,” Melanie said.

Claire moved her sights to the offspring, glad for the distraction. The girl offered no new information; Claire studied Becky’s pictures so thoroughly she could draw a portrait of George’s illicit daughter. But seeing the boy was like getting the wrong anniversary gift all over again. He was definitely the girl’s twin. Much worse, Claire felt like she was watching a younger version of her own son.

Melanie mistook her shock for disagreement. “You don’t think those are George’s kids?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“So you know they are, don’t you?”

Claire watched the woman twirl spaghetti on her fork and consume it daintily. She chewed with her mouth closed and didn’t have her elbows on the table. The kids didn’t, either. They looked well behaved and well groomed. Claire looked away from the binoculars and met her friend’s suspicious eyes.

“They look like George,” she said.

“They are his,” Melanie insisted. “Do you need to get closer for a better look?”

“No. I can see fine from here.”

“So what’s the problem?”

Claire looked away uneasily.

“What is it, Claire?’

“I already know what you’re going to say.”

“Say to what?”

Claire sighed and met her eyes again. “I still think we need more definite proof.”

Melanie opened her mouth, but Claire stopped her.

“We saw George with her at the restaurant and at the school—but we never saw them hug or kiss. We never saw them go to a motel.”

“Claire, you know—”

“I know what I know!” she cried. “But none of what I know is one hundred percent positive. We can’t tell a judge, ‘Well, they sure do look like his kids.’ ”

Melanie nodded. “You got a point. Come on. Let’s get some proof.” She opened the door and started out of the car. Claire grabbed her arm.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s some trash cans on the side of the house,” Melanie said. “Let’s go dig through ’em.”

“Eww!”

Melanie leaned and reached to the back seat. She came back with a box of latex gloves and a few freezer bags. She dumped the supplies in Claire’s lap and gave her a long, hard look.

“What’s your excuse now?”

“Where’d you get these?”

“From my job.”

“What, what are you—”

“We’re going to get some proof,” Melanie explained. “I’ll take it to work and run the DNA.”

Claire was flabbergasted. Melanie did work at a genetics lab, but she was a secretary.

“I’m not doing it myself,” she said, reading Claire’s expression. “I’ll ask Nathan to do it for me.”

“Who’s Nathan?” Claire asked, still taken aback.

Melanie smiled. “He work in the lab. You remember when I used to work nights, back before I had Trevon?”

Claire nodded.

“Well,” Melanie beamed, “I was going through some stuff with Anthony back then, and Nathan was always there at work. He was cool. We talked a lot.” She cleared her throat. “And um, things got a little confusing for a minute there, when I got pregnant…”

Claire’s jaw dropped.

“We got it figured out,” Melanie said quickly. “Trevon is definitely Anthony’s baby.”

“Melanie!”

“Don’t look at me like that. I went to church and prayed about it. Me and Anthony got past our paternal issues. You need to deal with yours.”

Claire gave her a crazy look, but she put the gloves on. Melanie did, too.

* * *

Claire felt odd to find herself sneaking around the side of a strange woman’s house—at seven thirty p.m., on a work night, when her kids were at home with homework that needed to be checked and baths that needed to be run—but it was no more odd than seeing George at a private school function with a camcorder in hand.

Melanie led her to the back door where there were two trash bins next to the steps. The blue one contained recyclables. The brown one had regular garbage. In this day of identity theft and credit scams, Claire didn’t expect to find any unshredded letters in there, but people only destroy paperwork with confidential information on it. There was nothing confidential about the fact that Kimberly Pate graduated from Texas Lutheran University, so the discarded alumni newsletter was sitting right on top.

Melanie handed it to her, and Claire stared at it in silence. The Kim from the Hallmark cards finally had a full name. She had an address, and a face, and Claire even knew what her perfume smelled like. Claire knew what kind of soap the mistress bought for her household.

At that moment Claire understood that everything they suspected was true, but Melanie wasn’t taking any more chances. From the brown trash bin, they bagged a pint-sized milk carton, a few Styrofoam cups, and a handful of small rubber bands with little hairs still tangled in them. Melanie would have preferred a toothbrush or hairbrush, but Claire desired nothing further; she had a face for the dreaded Kim, and, for now, that was all the torment she needed.